The Flatshare: A Novel

I really didn’t think chocolate-tiffin eating could be so sexually charged. We’re sitting on the sofa in front of our television (which is basically just a novelty ornament shelf) with wine glasses in our hands and our legs touching. I’m not far off sitting in his lap, really. That’s definitely where I want to be sitting.

‘Go on,’ I say, nudging him with my knee. ‘Tell me the truth.’

He looks shifty. I narrow my eyes at him, sliding nearer, my gaze flicking to his lips. He’s doing the same – that eyes-lips-eyes thing that seems to tug you closer, and we hover in the moment as if we’re at the top of a rope swing, waiting for gravity to kick in, feeling the tug but not quite going. No doubts this time: I know he’s thinking about kissing me.

‘Tell me,’ I say.

He tilts his head, but at the last moment I pull back just a little, and he lets out a quiet huff, half amused, half frustrated at the teasing.

‘Much shorter,’ he says reluctantly, pulling back too and reaching for another square of tiffin. I watch him lick chocolate from his fingers. Amazing, really – I’ve always found it weird how in films people think licking things like that is sexy, but here Leon is, proving me wrong.

‘Shorter? That’s it? You told me that already.’

‘And . . . dumpier.’

‘Dumpier!’ I crow. This was the stuff I was after. ‘You thought I’d be dumpy?’

‘I just – assumed!’ Leon says, shifting in and pulling me closer again so I’m almost bundled up against his chest.

I lean into him, relishing the feeling. ‘Short and dumpy. And what else?’

‘I thought you would dress weirdly.’

‘Well, I do,’ I point out, gesturing to the laundry drying in the corner, which includes my bright red pantaloons and the rainbow knitted jumper Mo got me for my birthday last year (though even I would draw the line at wearing those two items simultaneously).

‘You make it look good, though,’ he says. ‘Like you do it on purpose. It makes you look like you.’

I laugh. ‘Well, thanks.’

‘And you?’ he asks, shifting his hold on me to take another sip of his wine.

‘And me what?’

‘What did you think I’d look like?’

‘I cheated and looked you up on Facebook,’ I admit.

Leon looks shocked, wine halfway to his mouth. ‘I didn’t even think of that!’

‘Of course you didn’t. I mean, I would want to know what someone looked like if they were moving in and sleeping in my bed, but you don’t care about appearances much, do you?’

He pauses to think about it. ‘I cared about yours once I’d seen it. But otherwise, why would it make a difference? The first rule of the flatshare was that we wouldn’t meet.’

I laugh despite myself. ‘We broke that one, then.’

‘That one?’

‘Don’t worry.’ I wave him off. I don’t fancy explaining Gerty’s ‘first rule’, or quite how much time I’ve spent thinking about breaking it.

‘Ahhh,’ Leon says suddenly, catching sight of the time on my Peter Pan clock on top of the fridge. Half midnight. ‘It’s late.’ He looks at me worriedly. ‘Lost track of time.’

I shrug. ‘That’s OK?’

‘Can’t get back to Mam’s now – last train was at ten past twelve.’ He looks pained. ‘I’ll just . . . sleep on the sofa? If that’s all right?’

‘On the sofa? Why?’

‘So you can have the bed?’

‘This sofa is tiny. You’d have to curl up in the foetal position.’ My heart’s thumping. ‘You have your side, I have mine. We’ve stuck to the left and right rule all year so far. Why should we change it now?’

He watches me, his eyes flicking back and forth across my face as if he’s trying to read me.

‘It’s just a bed,’ I say, moving closer again. ‘We’ve shared a bed before.’

‘Not sure . . . this will be quite as straightforward,’ Leon says, in a slightly strangled voice.

On impulse, I lean forwards and press my lips lightly to his cheek, then again, and again, until I’ve kissed a path from his cheekbone to the very edge of his lips.

I sit back and meet his eyes. My skin is already buzzing, but the look he gives me sends a jolt through me, and now it’s as if eighty per cent of my body has suddenly become heartbeat. I swallow. We’re as close as two humans can possibly be without kissing. There’s no flicker of panic this time, just blissful, fiery wanting.

So, at last, I kiss him.

When I kissed him on the cheek I’d planned to make our first proper kiss soft and slow, the kind of kiss you feel in your toes, but when I actually get there it’s clear there’s been way too much waiting and sexy tiffin-eating for that. This is a proper kiss, the kind that promises very imminent undressing, the kind that generally happens while in the process of stumbling towards a bed. I’m not surprised, then, to find that when we surface for air, I’m straddling him, my hair hanging down on either side of us, my long skirt ruched to my thighs, his hands on my back pulling me as close as I can possibly be.

We don’t pause for long. I twist to dump my wine glass uncere­moniously on the coffee table and shift a little to ease the angle on my ankle, and then we’re kissing again, hungry, and my body is responding with a heat I genuinely don’t think I’ve felt before. One of his hands shifts to the back of my neck, grazing the side of my breast en route, and I pretty much yelp as the sensation hits. Everywhere and everything seems to be in overdrive.

I have no idea what will happen next. I actually can’t even consider the question. I’m incredibly grateful for that – all thought of flashbacks and exes has evaporated altogether. Leon’s body is hard and warm and all I can think about is getting all of these clothes out of the way so I can be as close to it as possible. This time when I move to unbutton his shirt, he drops his grip on my waist to help me, shrugging it off and chucking it over the back of the sofa, where it hangs like a flag from the lamp. I run my hands over Leon’s chest, marvelling at the strangeness of being able to touch him like this. I break away from him for just long enough to wriggle out of my top.

He breathes in sharply, and as I lean back in to kiss him again, he stops me, hands on my upper arms, eyes on my body. I’m wearing a thin chemise under the top, its neckline following the line of my bra, dipping to a low V.

‘God,’ he says, his voice hoarse. ‘Look at you.’

‘Nothing you’ve not seen before,’ I remind him, already ducking in impatiently to get another kiss. He holds me back again, still staring. I let out a little frustrated noise, but then he moves to press his lips against my collarbone, then lower, kissing across the top of my breasts, and I stop objecting.

It’s becoming impossible to form thoughts for longer than about two seconds. They just evaporate. I can feel great sections of my brain rededicating themselves to thinking about sex. The part of my brain that deals with pain, for instance, has entirely forgotten about my ankle and is now much more interested in what exactly Leon’s lips are doing as his kisses dip lower and lower to the edge of my bra. The section that usually busies itself wondering if I look fat in things seems to have died off altogether. I’ve resorted to moaning because my brain’s speech centre is clearly out of action too.

Leon’s hands dip under the waistline of my skirt, touching the silk of my underwear. I wore nice underwear, obviously. I may not have planned for this, but I hadn’t not planned for it.

I pull away and yank off the chemise – it’s only getting in the way now. I’m going to have to stop straddling him in order for either of us to remove any more clothes, but I really don’t want to. My brain makes a real effort at some long-term thinking, but that’s no use, obviously, so I abandon the problem and hope Leon has some sort of solution.

‘Bed?’ Leon says, his lips back up on my neck.

I nod, but when he shifts underneath me I mumble an objection, dipping my head to kiss him again. I can feel his smile against my lips.

‘Can’t get to bed without you moving,’ he reminds me, trying to shift again.

I make another incoherent objection. He chuckles, lips still pressed against mine.

‘Sofa?’ he suggests instead.

Better. I knew Leon would have a solution. Reluctant, I slide off his lap so he can move. His hands tug at the fabric of my skirt, fingers searching for a zip or button.

‘It’s got a hidden zip,’ I say, twisting to find the zip tucked in the seam along my hip.

‘Devilish women clothes,’ Leon declares, helping me pull the skirt off once it’s undone. Like before, I move to press myself against him again, but he stops me so he can look at me properly. The look in his eyes makes my cheeks glow. I undo his belt and he breathes in sharply, his gaze back on my face as I unbutton his jeans.

‘A little help?’ I say, eyebrow raised, as I fumble around with the buttons.

‘Leaving that part to you,’ he says. ‘Take as long as you need.’

I grin, and he tugs off his jeans, then pulls me to lie down beside him on the sofa. We’re a mess of limbs and cushions and skin. We completely don’t fit. There’s no space. We’re laughing now, but only in between kisses, and wherever his body touches mine it’s like someone’s reprogrammed my nerves to feel five times as much as usual.

‘Whose idea was the sofa?’ Leon asks. His head is level with my chest; he kisses his way along the bottom of my bra now, and I moan. I’m incredibly uncomfortable, but discomfort is a small price to pay, as far as I’m concerned.

It’s only when he elbows me in the stomach in an effort to sit up enough to kiss me that I call time. ‘Bed,’ I say firmly.

‘Sensible woman.’

It takes us another ten minutes or so actually to get moving. He gets up first, then, as I shift to stand, bends to pick me up again and carry me.

‘I can walk fine,’ I protest.

‘It’s our thing. Plus, it’s faster.’ He’s right – he’s laid me out on the bed in seconds, and then he’s on top of me, his lips hot on mine, his hand on my breast. No laughing now. I can hardly breathe, I’m so turned on. It’s absurd. I can’t possibly wait any longer.

And then the doorbell rings.